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THE FARMER'S GUEST 

AND OTHER RHYMES 



BY 



F. W. PARKER 




T. G, ROBISON, PRINTER 

226 ALDER STREET 

PORTLAND, OREGON 



^% 






DEDICATION. 

To my loyal brother J. B. Parker, who knows farming from 
A to Z, and has a good picture of what a snap it is, these 
rhymes are affectionately dedicated by the author. F. W. P. 



Copyright, 1921 by F. W. Parker. 
g)C!.A6245^8 

SEP 26 i32i 



FOREWORD. 

There is in me a streak of pure meanness and that accounts 
for my having these rhymes published. 

F. W. Parker. 



The Farmer's Guest. 



THE FARMER. 

He was a prosperous farmer, a man just passing his prime; 

And still a husky fellow who was always pressing the time. 

From early morning hours his pace would weary a fox, 

He worked with a three man power as patiently as an Ox. 

He had the mind of a Plato, the loins of Hercules; 

He had the smile of a master and the art of working with ease. 

He could laugh at rain out of season and grin each day of the 

drouth; 
Was always on taps at meal time and seldom down in the mouth. 

For years, perhaps about forty, he fought with weather and soil; 
Attained success as a farmer and had considerable spoil. 
He was not classed as a Christian, for he never joined the church; 
And he had slipped his religion beyond the clergyman's perch. 
He was very exact in observing and ever playing his game. 
For coining some good farm proverbs he won considerable fame. 
He worked over time sufficient to take his turn at the bat; 
And found some time for picnics and fairs and frolics like that. 
He missed the school at Corvallis, and so for labor was fit; 
Nor asked his State to provide him a well filled government teat. 
At night when he hit the pillow he slept the sleep of the kind, 
A more real likeable fellow is not so easy to find. 

HIS WIFE. 

His wife just baffles description, her soul of infinite worth; 
Made home a branch of her heaven, that filled its mission on 

earth. 
She laid upon love's great altar, in spite of the work of years, 
A group of five little Yankees, the fruit of her hopeful tears. 
She thought her John was a wonder, a real Goliath of Gath, 
And both were strong in their loving and walked side-by-side in 

life's path. 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 



SUMMER TIME. 

The time, if informed correctly, was about the middle of June, 
All nature had gorgeous colors and promised her harvest soon. 
The birds were busy prospecting the chances of raising their 

young. 
The stock were leisurely feeding and care to the breezes was 

flung. 
The lambs and kids were cavorting because of their well filled 

maws 
The colts at physical culture, according to nature's own laws. 
The swine were stretched in their wallow and taking their daily 

bath. 
The bull was loudly defying the fabled giant of Gath. 
The hens were joyfully singing, the rooster crowing his best, 
The doves were lovingly cooing and feeding their young in the 

nest. 
And Tom, the mammoth bronzed turkey, was strutting around 

like a prince 
While his wives were feeding their babies on grasshoppers, beet- 
les and chinch. 
The guinea hens kept up their clatter, a noise that often grows 

stale, 
The peacock was viewing with pleasure the rainbow tints of his 

tail. 
The farm had every appearance of blissful comfort and wealth. 
The farmer, his wife and his children, enjoying the very best 

health. 

THE EDITOR AND HIS SON. 

One day a man drove his auto up to the farmer's front gate, 
And he and a kid alighted and said, "Kind friend are we late?" 
Of course they were out on business, but meals are always 

thrown in; 
All farmers take that for granted and meet their fate with a 

grin. 
His wife set a bountiful table, it did not* fret her a mite, I 
When hungry folks from the city chanced in to get a wee bite. 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 



The man was Editor Jinkins, who lived by pushing his pen, 
The boy was a city cipher that fate will produce now and then. 
Now Jinkins had sized up his hopeful and sought the place he 

could fill, 
And so concluded that farming was the proper thing for his Bill. 
He was far too fat and too awkward, too tired and slow to play 

ball, 
He shrank from games that were manly, was too big a coward 

that's all. 
For tennis, swimming and skating he had not the slightest taste. 
He lacked the right disposition — was much too large in the 

waist — 
Croquet he sometimes could manage, providing stools were near 

by, 
And the sun in mercy hastened to hide back of clouds in the sky. 
But Jinkins thought Bill was a hummer and so, for farming 

was fit, 
For like the good bear-dog of fable, for everything else he was 

nit. 



MR. JINKINS IN HIS OFFICE. 

The editor sat in his sanctum and penned some wonderful dope, 
Which proved the farmers were holding the nation's only hope. 
When springtime came in its gladness rewarming the passions 

of earth; 
It always set him to dreaming of the farmer's fortunate birth. 
How he longed to grasp the plow handles and work in the ground 

with a spade, 
Or strip some cows (about twenty) and then sit around in the 

shade. 
He saw the crops grow while he slumbered, he counted the 

chickens not hatched; 
And sighed for the pure air and sunshine, and health that could 

not be matched. 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 



His daughter went to Corvallis and this obliged him to rave, 
And tell this good wife of the farmer that she should learn how 

to save. 
So he wrote and he kept on writing, of health and wealth on 

the farm, 
To him it was ever a garden which held a heavenly charm. 

WHERE HE LEARNED TO FARM. 

He mastered the art of farming and its positive path to fame. 
Of college-trained college professors who only play at the game. 
He learned how to kill the aphis, to miss the smut and the 

drouth. 
And when he harnessed the horses to put the bit in the mouth. 
He learned how to beat the markets, to buy and sell at the sales, 
And why when the lambs were nursing they always wiggled 

their tails. 
He could plan a fancy cow-stable or a modern chicken coop, 
He knew why hens went to setting and how to doctor the roup. 
He learned that when hens went to crowing they'd as well be 

knocked off their pegs; 
That roosters would sometimes cackle, but never would lay any 

eggs. 
He was sure that his faultless knowledge would place him in the 

front rank 
Of farmers who revel in comforts and have large rolls in the 

bank. 



HIS REQUEST. 

So he came to this thrifty farmer, not to learn the game you 

know. 
But to see if his son William could borrow a hunk of his dough. 
He said, "You see I'm planning to place my son William quite 

well, 
I know the ruthless city is sure to land him in hell. 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 9 

He's too kind hearted and gentle to gore his way like a bull, 
The games in the city are heartless and all good places are full. 
He's sympathetic by nature and has a dislike for strife; 
But he'll take to the farming business, its luxuriant easy life. 
The farmer, you know, is not tempted to swear or even to hate. 
And Bill don't like excitement, he'd rather sit down and wait. 
He's also adverse to fighting, to dicker and quarrel like a Turk, 
But he'd fall in love with farming for nature will do all the 

work. 
He knows how to manage the dairies, the foods that make most 

butterfat, 
He'll marry a girl from the college, and we're mighty proud of 

that. 
I'm sure you'll want to be helping a boy you know isn't rash, 
And all we seem to be needing is some of your surplus cash. 
We've figured our plan out fully and figures you know won't lie, 
We've learned the cost of production, have lists of all we must 

buy. 
We find three years is sufficient, allowing a five per cent loss; 
When William will cancel the mortgage, and meanwhile be his 

own boss. 
And seeing you with these comforts, I'm anxious the chance to 

seize, 
And place my Bill in the saddle, I'm sure he can sit there with 

ease. 



BILL'S PROSPECTIVE WIFE. 

"The woman that William will marry, stood high in the domestic 

grade. 
She learned the need of protein and how baby's food should be 

made. 
She makes the daintiest biscuits, and salads, cock-tails and pies. 
Her jellies and sauces and puddings will give her a seat with the 

wise. 
She makes such beautiful doilies and tats such elegant lace. 



10 THE FARMER'S GUEST 

She'll lift the wives of the farmers and give them a wonderful 

place. 
She learned the laws of eugenics and this has had its effects, 
She has fixed the size of her family and also determined the sex. 
And now that bountiful nature has brought great wealth to your 

hand, 
I fancied that you would be anxious to help us in buying the 

land. 
We've dickered with farmer Perkins, who owns the farm by the 

mill. 
And that is the one we are wanting, for the home of Susan and 

Bill. 
This Perkins is one of many who, timely advice won't heed. 
My editorial leaders he would not take time to read. 
His farm is badly depleted, the buildings are all run down, 
And he, like a fool, is anxious to make his abode in town. 
So if you will loan us the money we'll close with Perkins at 

once. 
For fear he should change his notion and see that he is a dunce. 
'Twill take a lump of ten thousand to buy all the stock and the 

farm, 
And we'll have it back with interest, in just three years like a 

charm." 

THE FARMER'S REPLY. 

The farmer's face was now wearing the smile of a man born to 

win. 
And one who could sense misfortune and foretaste the acids of 

sin. 
He said, "I see, Mr. Jinkins, your plans are the plans of a man, 
And to give you some real good counsel, I'll do the best that I 

can. 
'Tis true our friend Perkins has sadly neglected his place, 
And none of the boys would master the slow agricultural pace. 
But before your Bill takes to farming let me ask a question or 

two, 
To help determine his fitness and then you will know what to do. 



THE FARMER\^ GUE^T 11 

"Can Bill get up in the morning at four o'clock, all the time, 
And work till nine in the evening and feel that it isn't a crime ? 
Can he keep the pace each minute of a wolf that sights his meat ? 
Can he smile at the drouth, or showers that threaten to spoil 

his wheat? 
Can he work overtime for picnics and fairs and frolics like that. 
And milk twenty cows each morning to fit himself for the bat? 
Can he choke unbidden cuss words, when the cow kicks over the 

milk. 
Or dress his wife in gingham when he knows she's worthy of 

silk? 
Can he judge seed-corn and potatoes, and the fittest grade of 

plants, 
And wear out his clothes completely except the seat of his 

pants ? 
Can he smile at the city women who growl at the price of eggs. 
Or smell of his good wife's butter as if 'twas walking on legs ? 
Can he work till dark in the harvest, then rest while doing the 

chores. 
Or smile while boarding the threshers when the rain just comes 

down in pours? 
Can he buy of city merchants at prices less than the cost. 
Then go to his church on Sunday and make up for sleep he has 

lost? 
Can he smile when paying his taxes, well knowing that many 

misfits. 
Will suck up the most of his money by means of government 

teats ? 

HIS WIFE. 

"Can Susan get up in the morning along with her husband Bill, 
And do the scrubbing and washing while planning their stomachs 

to fill? 
Can she boil a pot of potatoes or roast a good chunk of meat, 
And really provide her table with food that is fit to eat? 
Can she feed the trifling loafers and still like a Christian feel. 



12 THE FARMER'S GUEST 

Or nurse her baby while ironing and change it while eating her 

meal? 
Can she feed the ducks, and chickens, the calves, the geese and 

the swine, 
Or do out a ten pound churning, while babies with colic whine ? 
Can she take to linsey dresses and heavy shoes like a sport. 
Then go to bed at night time with a prayer of the proper sort? 
When harvest is finely ready, will she see that Bill has hands. 
While she, lone handed keeps playing and meets all the increased 

demands ? 
When frost has nipped the potatoes, will she smile like a frisky 

pup, 
And furnish the grit for the battle when Bill has given it up ? 
Can she and Bill pull together, like a faithful well broke team. 
Or laugh when they learn that farming is not just what it may 

seem ? 
If you answer yes to my questions, you'll have no need of my 

cash. 
And if no, then know that farming would be a venture quite 

rash." 

"Come William, we must be going," the editor finally said, 
"This man is badly demented, I'm sure he is out of his head." 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 13 



The Call of the City. 

I say, my strong brave country lad, 

Why play the game of luck? 
Ignore the would-be-farmer's fad 

And bring to me your pluck. 

Come take a chance with me in life 
Where thieves and sycophants play; 

Where man meets man in deadly strife, 
And wit must win the day. 

Come play the game for woe or weal, 

Where giants feast on blood; 
Come cope with foes well worth your steel, 

In my commercial flood. 

Give up the farm, its trivial chance, 

Of wealth or glittering fame; 
Give up its grinding slow advance. 

And play a real man's game. 

The farm well suits the fragile reed. 

Who fears to bleed and die; 
For real red blood it has no need, 

I'll give the reason why. 

The farmer fights the gods of fate. 

Who flatter and entice; 
And promise a rich luring bait, 

At less than half my price. 

The farmer's hands may rend and tear. 

While fate sits by and grins; 
She knows how small will be his share. 

How lean the prize he wins. 



14 THE FARMER'S GUEST 



My war is fierce, the foes you'll stem 
Are neither mild nor meek; 

No quarter is ever asked by them, 
For here the Greek meets Greek. 



The farmer, forced by need of gold. 

Must play a higgler's part; 
He works for me through heat and cold, 

Then finds my stingy mart. 

The farm gives you a chance to win 

A prize of meagre worth; 
While I have fortunes vast within, 

And oceans full of mirth. 

The farm may give you many years. 

Of never ending toil; 
But neither mirth or scalding tears 

Are wrung from stubborn soil. 

My busy, thrilling, treacherous mart, 

Gives you ten years in one; 
And by the strong and brave of heart 

Is the rich guerdon won. 

The farmer's game is all a chance, 
For fate may shift the deal; 

He pays the fiddler while I dance 
The grand commercial reel. 

I call you to a real man's game 
Demanding brains and pluck; 

It's best to lose to wits I claim, 
Than win a game of luck. 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 15 

Uncle John's Philosophy. 

If other folks were just like me, 
We'd soon be rid of that blame bunch 
Of profiteers called lawyers, see! 
And all their blamed tomfoolery. 
Each mother son of them, by jing. 
Would have to do some useful thing; 
They would not strut around like scholars 
I would make them earn their dollars. 

If other folks were just like me. 

There wouldn't be one bit of need 

For those fellows they call preachers. 

I'd set all such well fed leachers 

To doing what the Lord would be 

A lot more pleased, it seems to me. 

To see them do, than have them playing 

With the creeds and prayers they're saying. 

If other folks were just like me, 
There'd be no sheriffs hanging 'round. 
Ever anxious to be med'ling 
With a fellow who is peddling 
The best blamed remedy for flu 
That any mortal ever knew: 
We lost our old Democracy, 
When robbed of personal liberty. 

If other folks were just like me, 
The editors would have to stop 
Printing in their daily papers 
All of man's unseemly capers; 
Such stuff as folks should never know 
For, more than likely it ain't so. 
They'd not dare to be so gushy. 
And call all my poems mushy. 



16 THE FARMER'S GUEST 

If other folks were just like me, 
There would be no wealthy bankers either. 
There's a trick in their free giving 
Us advice to make THEIR living. 
They counsel us to save our dimes 
And thus prepare for real hard times, 
Then strut around in their white collars 
Because we save for them our dollars. 

I wish all men were just like me, 
I'd let each mother's son of them 
Live like the birds in yonder tree. 
Supremely happy and care-free; 
And singing while they search the lea 
For stuff to build a cozy nest, 
Or worms their babies love the best. 

Alas, there ain't no more like me. 

I asked the Lord once why it was; 

He smiled and answered, "Just because, 

If I hold the rest undaunted, 

One like you was all I wanted." 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 17 

Introducing Edward Markham 

AT 

OREGON CITY, OREGON. 

I have been persuaded that the believers in evolution, as 
God's method of creation, get more inspiring thrills out of their 
conclusions than any other class of thinkers. The idealist is like 
a mechanic working on a sky scraper; he is ever rising with 
each story he builds, but when he stands erect, he can only reach 
out into what seems empty space. The materialist is like a man 
anchored to earth and minding the things of time and place; 
while the naturalist may be likened to a man climbing a steep 
mountain, his feet on the solid earth, his hands grasping the 
living shrubbery about him and his eye fixed on the summits to 
be attained. 

In his efforts to find the origin of poetry, the naturalist goes 
back into the past until he finds the first human mother; and as 
he listens to her rhythmic crooning over her little babe,' he 
forms the conclusion that poetry springs from the maternal 
instinct. For ages these mothers were the only poets the world 
knew. One day, long, long after these mothers had been singing 
songs to hush the crying of their little ones, a savage was pass- 
ing a cave where a mother had hid herself and babe from a 
hungry lion; her soothing song attracted his attention and he 
stood at the opening of the cave to meet her enemy. It was a life 
and death struggle; but the savage won. And when the happy 
mother had expressed her gratitude he went away a larger and 
nobler savage. 

Doubtless this savage often recalled the tragic fight, the 
song that inspired him and the woman whom he had made so 
happy; and he must have felt that pride which is ever the after- 
math of chivalry. When lonely he longed for the song' and 
doubtless returned betimes to the cave to see if all was well. 
In time he developed enough of the maternal instinct to sing; 
and so we conclude that poetry comes from that soul, from 
which comes all good things, the soul of motherhood. 



18 THE FARMER'S GUEST 

If the world had never known an aching heart, a troubled 
soul, a crying babe, an anxious mother and what we call sin 
sickness and death; it would never have known poetry. For the 
first object of every poet is to calm man's anxious fears, quicken 
his lifeless faith, plant the seed germs of hope, inspire manly 
courage and thus prepare the way for love's development. It 
is the opinion of the naturalist that the world is yet to hear 
sweeter and more inspiring songs than ever have been sung; 
for there is an ever growing number of men who are developing 
the maternal instinct and some of them are singing songs almost 
as sweet as the mother's lullaby. 

A poet is not one who is ever embosomed in idealian bowers, 
or walking in those paths that wend through flowered meadows 
or by placid streams. Having deep emotions and lofty concep- 
tions he is sure to have a larger round of experiences. To give 
these experiences expression and thereby inspire others to seek 
after those things that edify, become the most thrilling pleasures 
of his life. In pursuit of these pleasures, he becomes a coiner 
of words, an inventor of expression and a critic of literature; 
because the vocabulary of man does not keep pace with the 
visions and dreams of the poet. Like the Apostle Paul, he fre- 
quently finds himself in the third heaven, where his dreams and 
experiences are beyond his power to express and he must leave 
them forever untold. 

We have the delightful privilege, this day, of hearing one 
of our real poets read his inspiring lines, for which we indeed 
feel thankful; for all of us have been guilty of boasting of the 
fact that Mr. Markham first saw the light of day here in our 
beloved city. We will admit that it is more fitting for us to 
boast than for him, because he had nothing to do with the event 
except to answer the roll call. 

When Joaquin Miller said that, "Mr. Markham's poem, 
"THE MAN WITH THE HOE, was the whole Yosemite," he did 
not know, or had forgotten, that Mr. Markham was born on the 
banks of "THE BEAUTIFUL WILLAMETTE." Doubtless, in 
those days just prior to his birth, his mother frequently walked 
along that path at the crest of the bluff, and, while hopefully 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 19 

waiting, expecting, dreaming, communing with God and fore- 
planning for her babe, poet as she was, the grandeur of the 
scenery from the bluff must mightily have moved her and un- 
wittingly she planted in the mind of her little unborn son, those 
seed germs of thought and vision that afterward produced "THE 
MAN WITH THE HOE." As I read that great poem I can see 
in it the placid waters above the falls waiting for the tragic 
plunge over the rocky ledge and feel the force of the seething 
current in the deep gorge below; and then, even hear, the silence 
of the centuries as the waters of the Willamette and Columbia 
mingle and silently move on to the great ocean. Listen to the 
last lines of the poem: 

"O masters, lords and rulers in all lands. 
How will the future reckon with this man?" 
See in these two lines the still waters above the falls. 
"How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?" 
See in these two lines the turbulent water plunging over the 
rocks. 

"How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — 
With those who shaped him to the thing he is — " 
See in these two lines the seething waters in the deep gorge 
below. 

"When this dumb terror comes to judge the world 
After the silence of the centuries?" 
See in these two lines the mighty current moving on to the 
ocean. I am persuaded that the poem's force, its majesty of 
rhythm, its volume of music and its mighty current of love is 
due to his mother's thoughts and visions, during those prenatal 
hours of hopefully foreplanning. 

But of one thing we are sure, that is, Mr. Markham is a 
real old time Webfooter; and his poetic gift is due to his having 
been bom in Oregon City on the banks of "THE WILLAM- 
ETTE." I am very happy to introduce to you at this time this 
product of Oregon City's climate and scenery, America"s greatest 
living poet, Edwin Markham 



20 THE FARMER'S GUEST 



Our Poet. 



We claim you, Edwin Markham, not because you've won renown; 
But because our favored city, while 'twas just a frontier town, 
Was the place our God selected when He thought to send you 
down 
To live on earth. 

Although you've long been roaming you're a webfooter for sure, 
We sense it in your humor and your love unfeigned and pure. 
By all the laws of birthright we will make our claim secure 
O'er all the earth. 

We love you Edwin Markham, not because the halls of fame 
Are open to you now; but because you've played a royal game. 
And fought, with open hardy courage, love's battles since you 
came 
To live on earth. 

Your stately well known verses have revealed to us your heart; 
From it have come the messages, touched by poetic art, 
Which help us live more God-like and the better play our part 
While on the earth. 

We love you Edwin Markham and we'll say it o'er and o'er. 
As we come to know you better; for your heart's wide open door, 
Assures that webfoot welcome which shall live forever more 
On our good earth. 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 2l 

The City Without a Flag. 

When I was told that our City had to borrow a flag to float 
at half mast the day Captain Blanchard was buried, I was 
inspired to write the following: 

I have heard of poltroon slackers and of people without pep, 
I have heard of pin-head knockers, striving hard to make a rep; 
I have heard of hard-boiled fellows, who were low enough to 

slam 
Their ov/n country's holy emblem, nor for it cared a damn; 
But I stubbed my toe last evening on a most uncommon snag, 
When they told me that our city really did not own a flag. 

I have lived among cow-punchers, followed cattle o'er the hills, 
I have roamed the sea with sailors and I know they're all hard 

pills. 
Worked with lumber-jacks so wicked they would drink old crow, 

by jing, 
And with miners who were happy when they did the same 

darned thing; 
But in spite of their shortcomings, for which I cannot brag, 
I never knew these fellows when they did not own a flag. 

I have heard of men forgetting that they really were alive. 
Till they chanced to stumble backward on a lively old beehive; 
I have heard of folk so sleepy that they missed the fire bell. 
Till Satan forked them over and they found themselves in Hell; 
But they knocked me out last evening, left me limp as an old rag 
When they told me that our city really did not own a flag. 

I can hear our country calling for our laddies brave and true, 
I can hear our white-haired veterans shouting "Yankee-doodle- 
do," 
Hear the boys who whipped the Spaniards and the Germans 

over seas, 
Shouting loudly for Old Glory, as she unfurled in the breeze. 
But my eyes are dim with weeping and I cannot shout or brag. 
Since they told me that our city really does not own a flag. 



22 THE FARMER'S GUEST 



Uncle John on Woman's Dress. 



I'm not so sure that women dress 

Especially to please me; 
But I am sure their modern style 

Is what I like to see. 
Now I have passed my eightieth year, 

But, when ladies pass me by, 
I always view what they expose, 

To catch a fellow's eye. 

'Tis said that women love to dress 

To please fastidious man, 
They seem to know there are some things 

He'll look at if he can. 
And when they don their usual togs 

For street parade or ball, 
I wouldn't see much more, by jing. 

If they wore no dress at all. 

But women are considerate, 

And have a lot of grace. 
The only thing they daub with paint 

Is their once pretty face; 
And one need waste no time to view 

Their dimpled cheek and chin, 
But gaze at what they fain would hide 

With gossamer so thin. 



THE FARMER'S GUEST 23 



Just Good Luck. 



If, when you bet and win a good fat boodle, you can refuse to 
take another chance; 

If you can coax your pal to play the fiddle, while with his charm- 
ing sweetheart you may dance; 

If you can make your many acts of meanness appear as things 
your neighbors think quite fit; 

If you can swipe the other fellow's ace while dealing, and be 
able to get neatly by with it; 

If you can wed a real sweet handsome widow, who has not spent 
her former husband's dough; 

If you can live so she will not be learning what all your neigh- 
bors 'round the country know; 

If you can win a crown of magic glory, to cheer you down your 
fast declining years; 

If you can be what most men call successful while handing out 
to others your bum steers; 

If when you're passing out beyond life's portal your many 
friends are there to say good-bye; 

If some good priest assures you a safe passage, so you can 
calmly close your eyes and die; 

Perhaps you'll think yourself a fair ensample of rugged industry 
and manly pluck; 

But when you pass the pearly gate St. Peter will then explain 
to you, 'TWAS JUST GOOD LUCK. 



For Sale by 

THE J. K. GILL CO., 

Portland, Oregon. 



